


The Wedding

by Ninni



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Guilty!John, Housewife!Dean, M/M, daddycest, it's all very dysfunctional, pining!dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 13:50:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19152331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ninni/pseuds/Ninni
Summary: Dean is old enough to know that John’s gaze is too sticky-old-man-hungry as it lingers on his bare shoulders when Dean gets out of the shower. John looks at the bare skin like he wants to trace the freckles there with the tip of his tongue.Dean is old enough to know what people would tell him about that look.





	The Wedding

Dean is old enough to know that John’s gaze is too sticky-old-man-hungry as it lingers on his bare shoulders when Dean gets out of the shower. John looks at the bare skin like he wants to trace the freckles there with the tip of his tongue.

Dean is old enough to know what people would tell him about that look.

‘Run’, they would say, horrified, ‘Your father is a sick man. No one should ever look at their son like that.’

Dean is old enough to know. The thing is, he’s sick, too.

Sick enough to stay.

Sick enough to wonder what daddy tongue feels like against his shoulder; wet against his neck. Flicking against his earlobe. Dean wonders how John’s warm whiskey breath would feel against the shell of his ear.

Dean fantasises about murmured filth in that low, gut-tingling daddy voice; a damp, eternal bruise to Dean’s soul.

Dean shivers as droplets of water cling to his lashes.

John is large and dark in the door opening; arms crossed over his chest as his tired eyes rest, quite shamelessly, at the pale stretches of skin over Dean’s collarbones. John’s mouth is a soft, mean curve of approval.

Dean feels like he must be glowing.

John’s voice is low and thrumming when he finally speaks. “Is Sammy asleep?”

Dean thinks of soft little Sam, wrapped up snug in motel sheets. He nods. “Yeah,” he says, softly. “He- I put him to bed an hour ago.”

John slowly shuts the door behind him and reaches Dean in a few long strides across the room. He’s close enough for Dean to smell the leather of his jacket and the monster blood on his hands. He smells like iron and salt and of restless souls clinging to bones.

Dean’s sick little heart pounds.

John’s voice is an almost whisper, thick and dark and scandalously suggestive. “My little wife,” he praises into the space, the space that shouldn’t be, between them. “That’s almost what you are, aren’t you, Dean? My good little housewife.”

They’re not even touching and Dean’s painfully hard beneath the towel. He wants to cry and puke, but mostly, he wants John. Every blood-stained, whiskey drenched part of him. He wants him everywhere. Dean wants to drag approval and secrets from his very core and nurse on it forever.

Dean looks up at John through wet, black lashes.

The question hangs between them, taut like wire, unvoiced but not unasked.

Would you fuck me like a wife?

John stares at him, restraint and darkness in his eyes, and murmurs: “Go get dressed.”

Disappointment bleeds through Dean’s ribcage, but.

He is a good soldier, and good soldiers obey.

John watches as Dean slowly covers freckled shoulders with worn out flannel. It smells like John.

It will have to do for now.

*

Trying to remember a time when he didn’t want John is like trying to remember a dream. It’s vague and it slips further from Dean with every glance he steals of his dad’s calloused hands, with every deep voiced command.

He can’t remember not wanting.

All he remembers is the heat, and the smoke, and endless highways.

*

It’s a danse macabre.

Dean plays house, and he turns every mouldy motel they pass through into a stage.

He performs for a one man audience.

John’s dark gaze lingers on the little apron around Dean’s waist. It feels like a promise. It feels like being good and being bad and being everything John wants him to be.

It feels like being needed.

Dean serves up homecooked meals on flea market china and sets the table with flowers he picked from the side of the road, just like in the movies. Potatoes and peas and gravy over steak. A glass of milk for Sam, a beer for John. Dean drinks water that tastes like iron from the tap. 

After dinner, John puts his feet up. He knocks back three fingers of whiskey, and smiles.

It’s enough, for now.

*

Dean dreams of getting fucked on his back. He wants to get fucked sprawled on fancy sheets with his legs in the air with strong man-of-the-house fingers wrapped around his ankles.

He wants that suburban Saturday night kind of fuck; wine drunk and a little smudged lipstick and low, wannabe porn star moans into the pillow to not wake up the children.

Their children; their little boy.

Dean knows he’s fucked in the head.

The most perfect housewives always are. 

*

John always comes home with many wounds.

Dean cleans them up while John winces into a bottle of Jack.

Dean sometimes thinks he’ll become a widow.

*

When Sammy turns twelve, Dean buys a bakery strawberry cake because their motel pantry doesn’t have an oven. He throws the carton away and serves it up on the china plates he drags across the country. 

The south of Wisconsin is mild this early May. The sun hangs spring high in the sky, yellow and large like a kid’s drawing, and Sam looks younger than ever with pink whipped cream on his cupid bow. Dean leans over to wipe it off with his thumb, and Sam rolls his eyes at him.

“I’m not a baby, Dean.”

John chuckles at that, takes a hold of Dean’s wrist and brings it to his mouth. The ground seems to shift beneath Dean’s feet as John wraps his lips around his thumb and laps up the cream, eyes hooded and penetrating and never leaving Dean’s.

Sam is right there, watching. His little nose scrunches up. “Dad, that’s gross,” Sam says, with all that uncomplicated, innocent disgust that only little boys can muster.

It’s over in a second. John’s tongue flickers over the pad of Dean’s thumb and then he lets go. Dean’s arm falls slack to his side. The air cools the spit soaked finger, and he has to resist his impulse to bring it to his mouth; to taste, to smell, to savour.

John turns his attention to Sam. Laughs at some story Sam is telling, offers a rare and wholesome father smile as if he doesn’t have pink cream stolen from Dean’s finger dripping down his throat.

Dean stares into the sun.

Blind eyes can’t gaze at calloused hands and wide, old-marine shoulders.

Sammy keeps talking.

Dean thinks of daddy cock and saliva the whole time.

*

Sam is asleep in the backseat and soft rock absorbs the silence between Dean and John in the front seat. John’s hands are large and firm around the steering wheel, his eyes dark and fixed on the moonlit highway. 

Nazareth sings about love that hurts.

Dean wouldn’t know.

Dean is a virgin in his heart and soul. Never tried, never used, never tasted. Dean wonders if John knows it, how unripe he is.

John’s eyes flicker over and meet Dean’s gaze.

Ripe or not, forbidden fruit is forbidden fruit, and John still looks at Dean like he’s starving. For a moment, it shows. It flickers like a confession in John’s eyes: the want and the guilt, the hunger and the shame.

The pain and the hate. The forbidden things. Dean wants it all, wants John to make him take it all, make him carry it forever. Dean wants to belong, and he wants John to belong to him.

Dean thinks of John stumbling in those late nights, smelling of liquor and bar cunt. He thinks of John’s eyes in the morning, shadowed and absent. Dean hates it, but he isn’t jealous.

Not of them.

Dean stares at the wedding band on John’s finger.

Dean is sick of being jealous of a pile of ashes. 

*

Two years is a long time spent wanting what you can’t have.

John barely looks at him anymore unless he has to, the only conversations they have consist of John’s barked orders and of Dean’s ever so obedient ‘yessirs’.

There is blood in Dean’s mouth and fear in his heart, and the world is on tilt. Dean feels like a devil’s claw, crooked and ugly. He wonders if this is the price one pays for spending their life collecting monster souls.

If he’s been allowing evil to seep into him by the pores since the fire.

If evil is like energy, indestructible, and he’s the boy with the dark heart who’s been left behind to tell the tale.

Dean doesn’t dare thinking about what that would make John.

Dean wants John to break like he breaks.

How, Dean wonders, do you break a heart of stone?

*

“Did you put Sam to bed?”

Dean’s mouth twists bitterly. He won’t play this game. Not anymore.

“He’s fourteen,” he says, shortly. “No, I didn’t ‘put him to bed’.”

John puts the gun down to the table, deliberately and ominously slow. He turns his head to pin Dean down with a stony stare.

It’s thrilling.

“Watch your tone with me, Dean.” John takes a step closer. “Answer the question. Is he asleep?”

John is still taller than Dean. His mouth is taut with a fury, and Dean wants to drown in it. He wants to breathe it in and let it pollute his insides, wants whatever scrap of emotion John deems him worthy of.

Dean glares up at him through his lashes. Fatigue and desperation curls up like a hostile animal in his chest, and he finally lets go.

“He’s not a child,” Dean sneers. “And I’m not his fucking mom.”

John’s scoffs in contempt. “No? Could’ve fooled me. The way you prance around, playing house. Doting on him. That crap you drag around everywhere.”

Dean thinks about the china stored in the dusty pantry and feels the humiliation burn bright and pink under John’s cruel stare.

“Yes, he’s gone to bed,” Dean finally says, bitterly. “Why do you even care?” He wants to wince at the petulance in his voice; he sounds like a child. “Worried he’s gonna notice you leave to go get piss drunk as usual?”

John’s backhanded punch across Dean’s cheek is immediate. The pain is white hot and brutally satisfying: it feels like a first kiss, and Dean reels from the impact for a second before stubbornly glaring up into John’s ashen face again.

Over the ringing in his ears, Dean snarls lowly: “Do you hate me because I’m not her? Is that it? Are you sick of me trying? Why you’re leaving every night, why you always come back smelling like whore perfume and dollar pussy? Am I not even good enough for a fucking fuck?”

John moves quickly.

Dean is slammed against the wall behind him, pinned there by the weight of John’s body and with his long fingers curled around Dean’s throat.

Dean holds his breath as his world prepares for change.

“We’re not doing this with your brother in the next room,” John growls into Dean’s ear. “Outside. The car.”

*

Dean steps outside wrapped in John’s old leather jacket.

The cold December night air smells like ice, and John’s breath is a steam of a million ghosts in the darkness where he leans against the Impala. His hands are shoved into his pockets, he stares to the asphalt, and Dean’s heart aches.

John looks like rejection, and Dean doesn’t think he can take it.

“Get over here.” John’s voice is low.

Dean approaches carefully, head hanging. Practised obedience drags him to John.

He wants to kneel.

John breaks the winter silence. “I swore wouldn’t tell you.”

Dean lifts his head, and stares. John’s face is pale: hungry and grim and the most handsome thing Dean has ever seen.

He’s perfect, achingly so: he looks like dark reassurance and warmth and longing, and Dean knows he’s in love. 

It’s not about the aprons and the fantasies, if it ever was. It’s about a man who makes his heart break and beat and ache. It’s about what Dean would do for him, how far he’ll go.

It’s about the reluctant softness around John’s mouth when he looks at Dean right now, and about the life Dean can’t imagine living without him.

Dean asks: “Tell me what?”

John’s hand is very large against Dean’s warm cheek, dirty fingers digging into his hair. “What I’d do to you. If you ever. If you ever asked for it.” 

Dean steps into John, into their unexplored universe. Trembling, he whispers: “I’m asking. Begging. Dad, please.”

John’s eyes are very dark. “In the car. Now.”

John tugs the door open and slides into the driver seat. Dean follows him with his heart in his throat, and John finds himself with a lapful of a rosy soft bride-to-be.

The bruise over Dean’s cheekbone is his something blue. 

Daddy’s leather jacket is his something borrowed, it smells of John; of safety and of lust and of ancient blood.

Dean’s gut-wrenching desire for his father is his something old: he’s carried it a lifetime.

John’s large hand softly cupping his face – now. That’s their something new.

“One day you’re going to hate me for this,” John murmurs against Dean’s mouth.

It’s a tar black promise, liquor laced and achingly honest. It makes Dean hard as fuck.

“Already hate you for a million things,” Dean whispers. “I hate you. Hate you. Hate you for not touching me. Hate you for making me want.”

Dean’s gaze drops. He glares at John’s hand, and continues. “I hate that thing.”

John moves slowly. Surely.

Dean’s heart pounds.

It’s the first wedding ever sealed by a ring coming off. Dean brings the naked finger to his mouth; kisses it, licks at it, sucks it into his mouth like an animal marking its territory.

Dean is soft and green eyed. He’s got a blood bathed childhood and a trunkful of flea market china.

John pulls him close.

Finally, Dean feels it: daddy tongue along his neck, fingers around his waist. It hurts enough to bruise, just like Dean always imagined.

John kisses him like he’s searching for forgiveness in Dean’s throat.

He finds nothing but an abyss of merciless devotion.

John plummets.


End file.
